


this stunning stasis

by PenzyRome



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, ITS A GROUNDHOG DAY AU!!!!, M/M, Photography, Redemption, Slow Burn, TV News, except southern!! bc i am me!!!!, hes going through it, ill add tags as we go along, jack is uh. hes a dick for the first half of this i wont lie, katherine's a producer and davey's a cameraman, this is leaning hard into the campiness of ghd just roll w me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29171982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenzyRome/pseuds/PenzyRome
Summary: "Every day I wake up," Jack says, staring at the wall, "it's May fifteenth, and I'm here. And it never changes."David stares at him, and then laughs, bewildered. "Sure, Jack."
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Jack Kelly & Katherine Plumber Pulitzer
Comments: 21
Kudos: 28





	this stunning stasis

**Author's Note:**

> anyways.. everyone blame benafee/Interpolations. i know i certainly do  
> just a heads up that jack is.. not going to be an agreeable person for a while. just trust the process. i have outlined this character arc meticulously. also instead of Beaver Day this takes place during a kitschy little festival based off of my own town's traditions  
> title is from "hope" from ghd the musical!! please go listen to ghd. thank you. ok enjoy

Sometimes, the little lies you tell yourself are necessary-- she’ll call soon, I’ll go on a run tomorrow, they’ll give me the next promotion, he’s not going to leave. More than necessary, they’re  _ easy _ , so deliciously easy to labor in that delusion and ignore it all.

It would not be easy, however, for Jack to convince himself that he’s at home, in his apartment, in his own bed.

Every morning that he wakes up at home, the ache in his head has lessened from the night before. He’s surrounded by soft sheets and exposed brick and his own perfect decor, the temperature is perfectly controlled.

When he wakes up today, he’s sweating, the sheets are scratchy, his back and neck startle with pain, and the first thing he sees is a cross-stitch of a cat cross-stitching.

And, over it all, is a blaring alarm, a shrieking call that makes Jack want to charge right out of bed and break a door in half. He slams his hand on the “off” button, but it doesn’t stop, just going and going and going and going until:

“Good morning, Abilene!”

“Morning is right, it is a bright and early 6 o’clock, but the festivities have already begun for the annual Peach Festival, this May fifteenth!”

The two radio hosts keep chirping on in horrifically peppy, local-yokel-y voices, and Jack clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut until he sees red.

“Fuck,” he finally spits, and kicks away sweat-soaked sheets until they lie in a bedraggled pile at the very end of his single bed.

The radio continues to play, describing the upcoming howdowns and hootenannies, and Jack yanks open his suitcase so hard his shoes tumble out and under the bed. He pulls on a button-up and tucks into a pair of pants, forgoing the jacket and tie given that it’s about a thousand degrees past boiling.

As he puts on socks and shoes, he notices a little figurine of a milkmaid and her cow that’s fallen over, lying on the dresser with no help in sight. Shaking his head with a huff, he puts his phone and wallet in his pocket, shakes two Aspirin out of a bottle, and dry swallows them.

“Alright, Georgia,” he says to the cross-stitch on the wall. “Let’s rumble, huh?”

He’s not ten steps out of his room when an old lady tries to talk to him.

“Good morning!”

He smiles, so fake and wide that his teeth grind together. “Good morning.”

“Looks like it’ll be a scorcher today!”

“Uh huh.”

The old woman swats him on the shoulder lightly-- she’s short and squat, and the fact that she can reach Jack’s shoulder embarasses him. “Not talkative today, huh? You headed to the Peach Festival, sweets?”

“I’m guessing there aren’t any other shindigs in town.”

“Not that I’m aware of!” She rustles around in her pocket and pulls out her wallet. “Now, you seem like a nice young man, are you from here?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t be staying here, would I?”

“Well, that’s a crying shame. If you’re looking for company,” she says coyly, “my great-niece is just about your age and she’s just a  _ doll _ .”

Jack stifles a scream as she thrusts a picture towards him. Her great-niece is actually quite pretty: her braids are brought up in a knot above her head, and her skin is a rich, warm brown. Regardless, though, Jack has a plane back to New York that leaves at three, and he doubts he has time for a hookup.

“Very nice of you, but I’ve gotta go.” He fakes another smile and leaves, ignoring her goodbyes. The stairs he walks down are bordered with kitschy paintings and needlework, and Jack feels like, if he had known his grandmother, she might have liked a place like this.

In the lobby, the old woman who runs the bed and breakfast-- Mary, Myrtle, something like that-- beams at him. “How are you, hon?”

“You all just love your sugary nicknames,” Jack says through a fake smile, and she laughs.

“Well, everything good is sweet, no?”

“That explains the diabetes rates.”

Facing the coffee maker, she asks, “You want something to drink?”

“You have espresso?” She turns and raises an eyebrow. Gritting his teeth so hard they might break, he says, “Black coffee’s fine.”

“I do hope it treats ya right.” She passes him a mug on a dainty, faded saucer. “It goes a bit wrong sometimes.”

He suppresses a roll of his eyes before he takes an ash-flavored sip and promptly opens his mouth so the coffee falls right back into his cup. “Actually, I’m fine.”

“Alright, then. You gonna be staying with us any longer?”

Jesus Christ, he might need another Aspirin. “Chance of departure is a hundred percent.”

“I’ll have your bags waiting!”

“You do that.” He nearly grimaces at the arrival of two new people, and hides it with a smile. “Have a nice day.”

With only a second before impact, he escapes without any more greetings hurled at him, and is hit in the face with a wave of sticky heat.

“Fuck,” he again announces to no one, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows as he walks the path he knows all too well.

Every May fifteenth, he stays at that horrific B&B, and he does the Peach Festival broadcast. He eats a bowl of grease and fat at the only diner they have in town, he chats up some hicks, and then he’s on his way by noon, back up the coast to his sheets and some decent cocktails and a more tolerable summer climate.

Eight and a half more hours. The day’s never killed him before, and he’ll be damned if it kills him today. He’s got Florence + The Machine tickets for next month, he can’t die now.

After a meal he’s pretty sure sent his cholesterol up thirty points, he wanders out to the side of the orchard at the edge of town, trying to stay in the shade as much as possible. He squints through the crowd for cameras, and finally sees Katherine and David unpacking the van they drove down in.

He’s worked with Katherine a lot before-- she’s his usual producer, and smart as a whip. She’s gorgeous, too, with red hair that she keeps tied up in a massive bun, but she unfortunately seems immune to Jack’s charms.

David, however, is new.

“Hey,” Katherine says as he approaches. “David, have you worked with Jack before?”

“Yeah, on that arts education story.”

Or perhaps he’s not.

“Can we get this over with?” Jack asks, already regretting not choking down the coffee, and Katherine looks back down at her clipboard.

“You know the drill. David and I need some shots of the surroundings, then we’ll do some quick interviews-- just blurbs about the festival and the tradition. They’ve got the first pick at nine, then we interview about the result, pack up, and book it.”

“Aye, aye, cap--” Jack cuts himself off as a woman in Daisy Dukes and wedges walks by. “Oh, hello, gorgeous.”

She turns and scans him over, then smiles a little. “Hey, there,” she says, a subtle twang to her voice. Twirling a blond curl around her finger, she tilts her head at him expectantly. “You from out of town?”

“Yeah. Just stopping by, I work--” he clears his throat. “I work for the  _ Times _ .” Katherine groans.

The woman blinks, puzzled. “I didn’t know the  _ Times  _ had TV reporters.”

“That’s because they don’t,” Katherine says pointedly. “We’re busy, ma’am.”

As she huffs and walks off, Jack scowls at Katherine. “You live to ruin my day.”

“I’m in charge of running the broadcast, not helping you get your dick wet.” She purses her lips together and exhales shortly out of her nose. “David, some shots of the skyline would be nice.”

“You got it,” David says, surveying the area around them for a moment before he begins carting supplies over to a clear space.

Katherine shoots Jack another dirty look before she marches back to the van, where the head of proceedings is waiting for her to review details. He checks for the blonde, but she’s long gone, so he resigns to sitting in the van with the air conditioning on, scrolling through his phone until David taps the window next to his head.

When the window is rolled down, David says, “Katherine wants us to chat some folks up. Well, she wants you to. She wants me to film it.”

“Got it.” Jack rubs the spot between his brows where a line is beginning to form.

They spend the next hour capturing meaningless soundbites:

“My family’s been peach farmers, five generations back.”

“It’s just really a time for the town to celebrate. We ain’t got much, but we’ve got this.”

“I always keep expecting it to get moved, but it’s always here. Small blessings, huh?”

Shortly before nine, a crowd starts to form-- the high school marching band, only twenty kids strong, had been practicing off to the side, and they now lie in wait for their cue. People flock over until the space between Abilene’s pathetic excuse for a main street and the edge of the orchards is filled to the brim with people-- probably just about every person in town.

At nine precisely, David angles his camera towards the wooden platform set up right in front of the orchard, and Jack steps into the shot. Katherine checks, nods, and then David counts him down.

“Jack, you’re on in five, four, three, two…” He points, and Jack smiles widely.

“Well, folks, here we are again-- May fifteenth, the day of Abilene’s annual Peach Festival. The town, historically Georgia’s peach capitol, kicks off the harvest season every year with the first official pick in the state. Legend has it that the state of that first peach indicates the health of the rest of the harvest, so let’s all pray for the sake of our grandma’s cobblers!”

David nods, and Katherine makes a note on her paper. “Good. The ceremony’s starting in just a few seconds, David, move in.”

“You got it.”

Jack watches David as he moves through the crowd, seemingly comfortable as can be. “Hey, where’s he from?”

Katherine frowns slightly. “Florida, I think. North, though, so more swamp than palm trees.”

“Figures.”

The mayor walks up onto the platform-- he’s an old, rotund man, who beams out at the crowd as they clap. “Morning, y’all! Now, I know you don’t wanna hear much from me.” There’s some laughter, and he shakes his head. “I’m just real lucky, is all. Ain’t no town greater than this one. Now, Charlie, son, why don’t you get up here?”

A man with short dreadlocks wheels up a ramp and onto the platform, and the mayor turns the mic over to him.

“Alright. Well, I get the pleasure of kicking this whole thing off this year!”

Holy hell, did these people know how to draw out Jack’s torture.

Charlie turns and observes the branches leaning near him, from the tree marked down for the first pick. After a comically tense moment, he reaches up and grazes his fingers against a ripe peach, a vibrant shade resting somewhere between pink, yellow, and red, hanging as if destined by fate right in his reach.

There’s one more second of waiting before he takes a firm hold of it and gently tugs it off the branch.

He hands it over to the mayor, who shoots a look at the crowd and takes a bite.

The crowd is dead silent and still.

“Delicious!” he says, and the crowd cheers as the band erupts into a celebratory march.

Jack needs to get out of here.

Before he can even put into thoughts his exasperation, the camera is turned to him again, and he pastes on a grin right before David points.

“Wow! A camera really can’t capture the excitement of watching a senior citizen eat stone fruit. A bountiful peach harvest, and hopefully no heat stroke for this reporter-- I’d call that a productive day. From Abilene, this is Jack Kelly with Channel Four-- so long.”

Katherine sighs the second the camera goes down. “Can we take that again, Jack, without the snark?”

“It was  _ fine _ .” He scans across the crowd. “The mayor, that Charlie guy, and the farmer from before. After that, we’re out of here.”

He storms with as much dignity as possible towards the mayor, almost missing the look Katherine and David exchange before David follows him. 

“There you are!”

Jack looks up from his similarly shitty but drastically needed cup of coffee to see David walking through the door of the diner. “Here I am. It’s your lucky day.”

David sets down the van keys and takes a menu, and Jack clears his throat, oddly antsy to sit in a van for the four-hour drive back to the airport. “What took so long?”

“I had to pack up the van,” David says. “You heard anything about the food here?”

“It’s all fattening. Did loading the van really take that long?”

Jack almost thinks he sees David roll his eyes. “You could have helped.”

“I respect your union too much. Are we leaving soon?”

“Calm down. I wanna try the sticky buns, my sister says they’re to die for.”

Jack doesn’t pursue any line of questioning following that, and they phase into an uncomfortable silence that is finally broken by a cop pushing open the door.

“Well, I hope y’all had nowhere to be.”

“What happened?” asks the waiter, and the cop shrugs.

“They shut down the damn highway. Sees to be some kinda crash, a nasty one.”

“What kinda crash shuts down the highway?” one woman questions, and he groans.

“I already said I ain’t got a clue!”

Jack finds himself on his feet, walking towards the cop with more courage than he ever has before. “What do you mean, it’s closed down?”

“I mean you can’t drive on it!”

He laughs nervously and shakes his head, trying to forcibly dislodge the thought. “You don’t understand. Is there an exception? For emergencies?”

All he gets is a raised, bushy eyebrow. “You havin’ a stroke?”

“I will, if I don’t get out of here soon.”

Before the other can reply, David yanks Jack away by the elbow, apologizing as they go. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything,” Jack hisses, and David drops his elbow, fixing him with a brief glare before he heads off in the opposite direction.

Unsure of exactly how to respond to that, Jack stands stagnant on the sidewalk for God knows how long until a woman asks to pass him. He backs up slightly, and then shakes his head again, walking back to the B&B.

After an hour of laying on top of the bed, staring at his phone, Jack stands and leaves again.

And then, after another two hours, he returns.

There are a couple restaurants in town, and two bars-- one that is clearly frequented more by the small youth population, and one for the rest of the town. Jack is at the phase in his life where teenagers have begun to scare him, so he finds himself in the latter, and walks towards Katherine and David where they’re already sitting at a table.

Katherine looks up and tilts her head. “Where’ve you been?”

Jack sighs, and tosses the keys to the van on the table. “The highway’s shut down.”

She exhales, something that nearly becomes a laugh but stops short. “We knew that. Thanks for checking?”

“You’re very welcome.” He takes the glass of whiskey that waits on the table and downs it. “Jesus Christ, how long is it gonna stay hot?”

There’s an awkward beat, and then David sighs and stands. “I’m gonna go… replace my drink.”

Jack casts a glance down at the discarded glass, and Katherine reties her bun, seemingly just to have something to do. “I called the station, and they said not to worry about your broadcast tomorrow.”

“Fantastic.” He leans back in his chair, wincing at the slightly sticky wood. “I love missing great stories about a vibrant culture because of-- what’s that?-- fucking produce.”

“This could be a great story,” Katherine protests, “if you gave it any thought whatsoever.”

“Kitty, there’s a deer head on the wall. I’m pretty sure the story of how it got there was the last great narrative this town has seen.”

She looks up at the ceiling, and then back at her empty glass, running a finger along the rim. “Next year, I think I might shove you down the stairs instead of do this story with you again.”

“I’d greatly appreciate that.”

She wrinkles her nose at him, and he frowns back, and by the time David comes back with three more drinks, he’s already halfway out the door.

He can’t get to sleep. Forgoing dinner seemed like a good idea at the time, but now his stomach twinges with hunger, his headache is back with a vengeance, and the heat has yet to break. So, he’s lying on top of the sheets in only his boxers, still sweaty despite the utter lack of layers, and he’s been counting sheep for so long they’ve devolved and grown into wooly mammoths. Finally, he stumbles out of bed, and knocks back a little cup of water with an arbitrary mix of melatonin and Aspirin.

30 more minutes of ruing the day he took this job, and he’s out like a light.

The sheets are scratchy, he’s sweating, and his head is pounding.

And, once again, the alarm is screaming, almost echoing around his tiny room, taunting him but also providing him with a beautiful reminder--  _ you can leave. _

He slams the “off” button down, but it continues, getting louder and louder, shriller and shriller, until:

“Good morning, Abilene!”

“Morning is right, it is a bright and early 6 o’clock, but the festivities have already begun for the annual Peach Festival, this May fifteenth!”

**Author's Note:**

> !!!! thank u very much for reading! i know i KNOW i am a clown for starting another multichapter fic but i just REALLY wanted to get this up on groundhog day.  
> the peach festival is based off of my town's corn festival. need i say more.  
> im on tumblr @penzyroamin, where u can see my dumbass thoughts and also rb the pretty pretty post i made for this fic please!!! if u enjoyed this.. please tell me that? its the production of a variety of hyperfixations, and i sure would appreciate a comment or two  
> anyways i love u and i hope ur doing well byeee


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